The Little White House

The little white house was sitting in the middle of a huge field. It had two big ponds on either side of it where cows would come and drink from all around because the water was so good and the grass was so green. It had a nice family living in it that took good care of it. They made sure it always had fresh paint and that the shutters were on straight and that there were no leaks or creaks. The little white house was a happy house.
But one day, the little white house got foreclosed on. Because it was the Great Depression and no one had any money. Especially Okies. Anyway, the little white has was foreclosed and the nice family had to move out. No one bought the house because the sweet little white house was in Oklahoma and everybody in Oklahoma was an Okie, therefore no one had money to buy the little house. So it sat. And it sat. And it sat. And the cows never came. It kept on sitting straight through 1969. It was no longer a happy little white house. It was mad at the government for foreclosing the neutral gendered little white house. BUT one day in like. 1970ish, a road was getting built. The little house watched and watched the road being built from a distance eager to have company after being out in the middle of nowhere for so long. Well, the construction workers weren’t very good company and they made fun of the house. They talked of tearing the house down and using the lumber for a makeshift fort where they could play patty-cake. But one day, right before the mean construction workers were going to tear the little house down, a nice man came along with picket signs and peace signs and stuff saying the if they tore the little white house down they would be tearing down the heritage of this land. He was an Okie. Anyway, he went to the senate and stuff and they said No you can’t tear down the little white house. Since this Okie had some money now, him and his gypsy women moved in. His name was Charles Manson. He didn’t fix the little white house up. But he smoked a lot of reefer in it. Charlie went to jail and the little white house didn’t have his or his gypsy women’s company anymore. But there was a road in front of it he found, once the haze from all the weed cleared, and he found it fun to watch the cars and make up stories about the cars that drove by.

THE END.




Origin of this story: We were driving to Colorado and my grandma told me to write her a story about a little white house. And I did. And she liked it.